


Parallel Lines

by M_Moonshade



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:05:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil and Scouting don’t have to get in the way of one another. They can run parallel, moving ever forward in one direction without ever crossing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallel Lines

**Author's Note:**

> The dream involved is this comic by the ever-talented Nazi Nurse: http://videntefernandez.tumblr.com/post/65939832555/always-remember-that-your-first-time-was-fucking

It’s like a riddle: impossible to see until you’ve found it, and suddenly it’s obvious.

Scouts do not marry, and no proper Scout will let some unrequited crush get in the way of Scouting. But Cecil wouldn’t. He understands how much Scouting means to you— he feels the same about his internship at NVCR, and he’s helped you earn badges before. Cecil and Scouting don’t have to get in the way of one another. They can run parallel, moving ever forward in one direction without ever crossing.

You would make some analogy to the lines of your body at the moment, but the comparison breaks down when it accounts for the tangle of limbs. Your legs are intertwined with Cecil’s, the ropy muscles of your calves striking pleasantly against the softer lines of your best friend’s. Cecil’s hands sweep over every inch of your skin like he’s trying to read the braille of your goosebumps, kneading shoulders and grasping hips and smoothing over the plane of your stomach. Cecil is everything you imagined he’d be and more. He is passion incarnate, savage kisses and drawn-out moans that light your nerves on end.

You’re is new to all this, but Cecil is hot and guiding and gentle. Between you, every fumble is a learning experience. Every moment of awkwardness carries the thrill of something new.

“I dreamed about this, Cecil,” you whisper into his neck.

“Really?” Cecil smiles, feline and sly. “What were we doing in this dream?” Dream. Like it was only one, instead of at least weekly for the past year.

You flush a somehow even deeper red than you were before— incredible, really, since so far you’ve been rivaling a sunburnt lobster. Cecil shifts his weight and suddenly he’s crouched over you, your shoulders pinned between the cage of his arms, his head hanging so low his starlit hair tickles your forehead.

“S-spooning.” It’s a miracle you can get out even that much. Cecil is rubbing all over you, nothing but a pair of plaid jeans between his hardness and yours.

“Go on,” he drawls, practically dragging the words out of your throat.

“Camping,” you whimper. “You. Wanted to share my. My sleeping bag.”

“Sounds cozy.” He settles low against you, almost smothering in his heat. “So who was the big spoon?”

“You have to ask?” The shyness is draining away under the pressure of his body, the black velvet of his voice, and you let yourself moan. “You felt so good pressed up against me. And then you reached around and started touching ME!”

Your eyes shoot wide. For all his groping and his grinding and his grabbing, you didn’t expect for him to actually do that. But his hand has slid past the waistband of your shorts and he’s got you in hand, gripping you so tight you think you might burst.

“Don’t tell me it ended there,” he whispers. You’re pretty sure you can feel his voice resonating in your bones.

“Y-you— _ah_!— you were stroking me— _ngh_!— stroking me off— yes just like that, _oh_ —” But that wasn’t the best part of the dream. Your eyes roll back in your head at the memory.”And then you got inside me.” The words devolve into a hiss as his hand clamps around the base of your shaft.

His eyes, inches from yours, are a supernova. “Would you like that, Earl?”

Your nod is silent and desperate, but you finally manage to squeak out a syllable: “Please!”

All at once his movements are harsh, driven. His nails scrape your hips as he drags the shorts to your knees, sending your briefs to join them a heartbeat after.

He rains down kisses on your cock, your thighs, licking the sensitive crease where your legs meet your groin, and all the while he’s driving a slender finger inside you. Lightning arcs across your vision. You writhe like a man possessed.

And you _are_ possessed. You’re his. All his.

“Oh Cecil, Cecil, Cecil, please don’t stop, _please_ —” It cracks into a shout as a second finger joins the first and starts scissoring madly inside of you. You’re almost screaming when a third joins them, tears streaming from your eyes from sheer overload. Vaguely you’re aware of him spitting into his hand, slicking himself up.

And then he slides inside you.

You open your mouth to gasp, but a single finger covers your lips. A soft “shh” plays against your ear. After all that frantic passion he’s suddenly still, pressed tight against you, filling you completely.

“How are you feeling, Earl?” His voice is rough and low and so very soft.

You can only choke out his name.

He starts to move, sweet and slow. Every motion burns with friction, too intense to be mollified by the spit, but there is no urgency between you anymore.

The two of you aren’t fucking, you realize in a haze.

You’re making love.

“Oh Cecil,” you whisper against his lips, and he groans in reply. “Oh Cecil, I love you.” It becomes a chant, a prayer, whispered to the steady rhythm of his hips: “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You’ve barely noticed him starting to tire when his hand slides against your stomach and wraps around your cock. A few long tugs, a tender kiss, and your stomachs are painted with come. He finishes not long after, with his face in your shoulder and your name on his lips. 

* * *

 

You don’t see him at school the next day, or the day after. Or the day after that. Instead you find a letter in your cereal, typed on the hauntingly familiar red letterhead.

_E. Harlan_

_You have a good deal of potential, so we’ll forgive your indiscretion._

_We won’t be so forgiving a second time._

* * *

 

When Cecil returns to school, his head is covered with thick bandages and he looks dazed, chewing on cardboard to get the tin-foil taste out of his mouth. He smiles at you— there is recognition in his eyes. Familiarity. Friendship. But nothing more.

He doesn’t remember, and you do nothing to remind him. He’ll continue on at the station, and you’ll pursue Scouting: two parallel lines, moving forward and never touching.

But he is an intern, and their lives are short, and sometimes you can’t help but wonder if he knew, when he touched you, that it would be for the last time.


End file.
